


If the clouds were singing a song, I’d sing along (wouldn’t you too?)

by Shachaai



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 03:02:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2093163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>France would rather like to go for a romantic walk through Paris, beautiful Paris in the beautiful springtime, with his grumpy lover, come what may. England staunchly insists it's going to rain.</p><p>FrUK nonsense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If the clouds were singing a song, I’d sing along (wouldn’t you too?)

“It’s going to rain,” says England.

Busy deciding which of his boots will go best with his outfit that day France just glances through to the open living-room of his Paris flat, glaring at the only part of his guest that he can see – England’s socked foot, as it so happens, the one limb swinging idly in the air as the _rosbif_ makes a mess of Francis’ sofa, sprawled out on his belly watching a rerun of his blessed _Doctor_ _Who_ in French. With English subtitles. (Not that England, despite all his protests to the contrary, _needs_ the subtitles after so many years, but having them up seems to make him feel like he’s proving something.)

Arthur _would_ be difficult when it concerns going for a walk, irritatingly immune to all the twinkling charms of Paris in the springtime. Francis had suggested it, keen to be out and away from the paperwork they’re _supposed_ to be glancing over: an afternoon’s walk in the sunshine filtering through his windows from outside, looking at the flowers in the park, stopping for some cake… A little _traditional_ romance is not so bad, and Francis, _France_ , likes to glow when his cities glow, stirred up by the warm spring breeze raising the hearts and hopes of his people.

England, too, for all his grumbling, has a romantic soul buried _somewhere_ under his layers of winter wool and prickles. His glances had been all green and thoughtful over the wine they’d cracked open on Francis’ balcony last night, looks lingering, lashes lowering, as the evening had set in and Paris had turned to a field of shadows and stars below them. The warmth of Arthur’s cheeks had never just been alcohol’s flush, and they had stumbled inside together to fuck against the wall in Francis’ hallway, needy hands and heady kisses, cool plaster on hot skin before they’d taken the last of their wine and whispers to bed.

And now –

Now the paperwork is most definitely not getting done. Not that either of them had really _planned_ to do it anyway, glad for a few days to be immature, irresponsible, and given an opportunity to point at each other in front of their bosses and go _he did it._ With spring in the air France is _more_ than happy to have a willing bed-partner to walk right to his bed – old enemies know how to get a good response.

Francis grabs one of his favourite brown leather pairs of boots, taking them through to the living room to lean on the sofa back as he puts them on. Now, _they are going for a walk,_ intractable English companion included _._ “The weather report was fine for today.”

“Yeah?” Arthur challenges, turning his gaze from whatever aliens are running about on-screen and twisting his head to look up at his far-too-gracious host. He’s being deliberately obstinate, the brat, just because he’s all warmly wrapped up in a stolen – _stolen! –_ jumper from Francis’ wardrobe. (An old cable-knit thing. Its shoulders are too broad on Arthur’s skinny ones, leaving the collar gaping at the neck, and the thick wool of it makes England look deceptively _squishy_. There are _bones_ under all that squish, Francis knows, knows the flesh and bones and hills and stones of _this_ not-quite-man too well. Unfortunate, English, _pointy_ bones.) “Since when do _you_ watch the weather report?”

“Since a certain _someone_ decided to switch the newson to wake him and half the street up early this morning as he killed my toaster for breakfast.” France pauses for a moment, considering, and can’t resist – “ _Again._ ”

Arthur roll-pushes himself up to his knees, hands on his thighs, suddenly indignant. “It was _nine o’ clock._ ”

Far too early. Especially for a day with no real business in it, with a warm body curled up in bed behind you, lips pressed to the start of Francis’ spine. “Yes, I _heard_.” They _really_ need to kick Arthur’s ‘early riser’ habits, _especially_ since the man is a _bear_ in the mornings, bleary-eyed until he has tea steaming in his hands and a _brute_ for the following few hours. “As did half of the street, as I _said_ , since your lack of knowledge about my volume controls roused us all from our much-needed _sleep._ ”

_“Nine o’ clock_ , frog.”

Francis waves it off, half-sat on his sofa’s back and glad for once he’d purchased a higher seat than his old one. “An unreasonable hour.”

Arthur just frowns at him, attention completely diverted from the _terribly_ clever speech the Doctor was saying on the television behind him. “Lazing about in bed until _noon_ on a weekday isn’t the global standard -”

“And this,” this was important, “ _this_ is why you are always so miserable.” Emphatic. Francis will get his point through one of these days, with a lot of talking and hopefully with a lot more screwing England senseless so he _can’t_ get out of bed in the mornings, face smushed into the pillows. “ _Why_ you insist on torturing yourself daily is quite _beyond_ me, _Angleterre –_ well, I suppose I should take your masochistic streak more into account -”

“And _this_ is why people say the French never achieve anything.” Arthur jabs him in the thigh, and Francis reaches down to snare the other’s wrist. “Aside from the fact you never _do_ actually _do anything -_ ”

“And _that,_ ” Francis says rather archly, “is _not_ what you were saying last night.”

Arthur goes to smack him with his other hand, and Francis grabs that one as well.

“Mature,” says Francis, and smiles when his _sweet_ little guest bares his teeth at him.

“Fuck you,” says Arthur. Pleasantly.

Francis just grins and tugs at England’s wrists to pull the other up further onto his knees, Arthur’s calves still flat on the cushions, thighs abruptly flush with the cushions of the sofa’s back and scowl brought up to Francis’ chin. “Perhaps when we return from our _promenade,_ ” says Francis, bends his head to kiss the stubborn line of his young friend’s mouth, but – _ah,_ England is still being awkward, and tilts his head away.

“It’s going to _rain_ ,” he says, adopting a tone like _he_ is the long-suffering one here.

Francis sighs at him. “It is _not_ ,” a disbelieving _uh-huh_ from Arthur, “the skies are clear and blue.”

“Blue _now,_ ” says Arthur, and tug-tugs at Francis’ grasp until the other Nation gives him his wrists back. “The bit you can see is blue _now._ ”

Francis gives up on appealing to rationality, and goes for outright bribery. The way to a man’s heart (even if the _man_ in question is a centuries old skinny man-child-Nation with a hideous selfish streak and a penchant for frowns) is through the stomach, and they are going to do romance if it _kills_ them. (It will probably kill them.) “ _I,_ ” he says, and grabs England’s chin between finger and thumb whilst the other is rather sulkily rubbing his arms, “will be buying you _cake_ on this walk.”

“Like I want some poncey French cake -”

“The café-pâtisserie on the route uses _English_ strawberries.”

Arthur pauses.

Bingo.

“… _Ah_ ,” he says.

“Oui,” says Francis.

Arthur flusters a little, and glances to the side.

Francis waits patiently. He has won, he _knows_ he has won, and _England_ knows France knows France has won, so it is only a matter of seconds and Arthur finding a good enough excuse to frame his – for once – gentle defeat.

“… _Well_ ,” Arthur says eventually. There it is. “Well, clearly at least _one_ of your citizens isn’t a _complete_ idiot.”

“I’m sure they’d be _honoured_ to hear you say that,” Francis says dryly, as if the opinion of one Englishman – even if he _is_ the literal personification of England – has ever mattered one _iota_ to the finest of his own people. (A _significant_ iota, anyway. One can make excuses for some of the _artistes_ ; a little delusion has always been good for their masterpieces.)

Arthur huffs some more nonsense and wounded British dignity, because _of course_ the French should be honoured that such an esteemed person from across the Channel ( _La Manche_ ) should condescend to bestow them with his great munificence or something or something else. Francis tunes it out, letting his companion talk himself through his circles for a few minutes before prodding him further along.

“So,” Francis murmurs, drags his thumb slow down the line of England’s swan throat to startle the other into finishing _honking,_ pink flushing Arthur’s cheeks like the colours beginning to touch the springtime flowers in the green outside. “A walk?”

“And cake,” England insists ( _nothing_ has truly changed with him), before hastily adding, “not that I’m particularly _interested_ in any of your people’s ludicrous attempts at baking, but _someone_ should see the fruits of my country aren’t wasted.”

“And cake,” France agrees, obliging because it had always been his intent, and he’s grown rather used to obliging his younger neighbour in the little matters ever since their long-ago youth.

Arthur pulls away and sighs like he’s embarking upon some Herculean labour, crossing his arms across his chest to lift up his stolen jumper and pull it off over his head. He has a t-shirt on underneath, something a _little_ more suitable to be worn out amongst the fashion-conscious Parisian crowds, but it rides up with the friction between its cloth and the jumper’s wool, showing a flash of pale belly, quietly purpling finger-marks at his hips, before Arthur tugs it down.

…Perhaps if Arthur had _started_ his argument about the walk with the stripping, he might have won it.

As it is, he only swings himself around, putting on his shoes.

“It’ll rain,” Arthur says, because the English have _never_ been again good at letting sleeping dogs lie.

Francis just sighs at him, and goes to fetch their coats. It is a _lovely_ day outside. “ _It_ _won’t_ _rain_.”

It rains.

Barely halfway across the park Francis had planned on taking an idle meander through to admire the flowers, England not-quite-tucked at his side so their shoulders bump companionably every few steps, the grey clouds gather in the sky overhead. (Francis glares at Arthur accusingly. Arthur just shrugs – _wasn’t me._ )

By the time they get out of the park – pace _very_ much quickened – it is raining the proverbial cats and dogs.

To England’s great credit, Arthur waits until _after_ they have reached the café- patisserie, peeling their sodden coats off and scraping wet hair out of their eyes so they can _squeak_ into their seats, to speak, tucked up in a booth near the hastily-switched on heaters with their orders – tea, coffee, and a large slice of fresh strawberry shortcake for both of them.

“I _did_ tell you,” he says mildly, spearing half a strawberry on his dessert fork and looking _entirely_ too comfortable dripping rain all over the café table. _Englishmen._

It’s chucking it down outside. Cradling his coffee Francis glowers out the window, then at his shortcake, then at Arthur quietly demolishing his own dessert opposite him. He must glare too long, for Arthur lifts his gaze from his food to blink at him curiously, and then – _then,_ the bastard slowly _smirks._

“ _Lovely_ walk.”

Francis wrings his coat out over Arthur’s lap.


End file.
